2026-02-16 05:15:55The hallway of the SleepWalker Hotel smelled of mildew and stale ramen. The fluorescent lights buzzed—a dying, flickering sound that matched the headache throbbing behind Arlan’s eyes.
He stepped out of Room 404. He didn't walk like Arlan anymore. The slouch was gone. His shoulders were squared, his chin tucked. His footsteps were silent, rolling from heel to toe on the dirty carpet. It felt... alien. His brain knew things he hadn't learned. He looked at the fire extinguisher on the wall and didn't see a safety device. He saw a blunt force trauma weapon, effective range: 2 meters. He looked at the plastic spoon in his pocket and saw a jugular piercer. D******d complete, he thought. Now for the stress test. He didn't have to wait long. As he reached the elevator, the doors pinged. They slid open with a metallic groan. Three men stood inside. They weren't police. Police wore blue and looked tired. These men wore tactical black vests, earpieces, and the distinct, arrogant posture of private military contractors. On their chests, a small logo was stitched in silver thread: M-SEC. Mahendra Security. Arlan stopped. The men looked up. "Target identified," the man in the center said into his collar. He was huge, a wall of muscle with a scar running through his left eyebrow. "Sector 4. Fourth floor. He's unarmed." The man smiled. It was a predator's smile. He pulled out a collapsible baton. SNAP. The steel extended. "Mr. Julian sends his regards, kid," the man grunted, stepping out of the elevator. "Don't worry. We won't kill you. Just... break everything that bends." The other two men flanked him, blocking the hallway. Nowhere to run. Arlan didn't panic. In the past, his heart would be hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He would be sweating. Begging. Now? His pulse dropped. 45 BPM. Time seemed to decelerate. The world turned into a grid of geometry and vectors. [ COMBAT MODE ENGAGED. ] [ Skill: CQC Mastery (Level 1) - ACTIVE. ] [ Threat Analysis: 3 Targets. ] [ Weaponry: Batons (2), Taser (1). ] [ Recommended Action: Pre-emptive Strike. ] "You're making a mistake," Arlan said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The leader laughed. "The mistake was your mother not swallowing yo—" He didn't finish the sentence. Arlan moved. He didn't run. He exploded. He closed the three-meter gap in the blink of an eye. The leader swung the baton—a heavy, overhead smash meant to crack a skull. Arlan didn't dodge. He stepped into the swing. His left hand shot up, catching the man’s wrist mid-air. Not grabbing it. Intercepting it. He twisted his hips and drove his right elbow into the man’s armpit. CRACK. The sound was wet. Like a dry branch snapping under a boot. The leader screamed, dropping the baton. His shoulder was dislocated instantly. But Arlan wasn't done. The "CQC Mastery" wasn't about hurting people. It was about dismantling them. He spun behind the screaming leader, using the man’s massive body as a human shield. ZZZTTT! The second guard had fired his taser. The probes hit the leader in the chest. The big man convulsed, foam gathering at his mouth as 50,000 volts fried his nervous system. "What the—" The second guard panicked, fumbling to reload. Arlan kicked the convulsing leader forward, knocking the taser-man into the wall. Then he looked at the third guard. The third man hesitated. He saw his boss broken and fried in less than three seconds. He saw Arlan standing there, not even out of breath, eyes glowing with a faint, crimson hunger. "Stay back!" The third guard pulled a knife. A combat jagged edge. Arlan looked at the knife. [ Threat Assessment: Minimal. ] [ Counter-Measure: Disarm & Incapacitate. ] Arlan walked forward. "Come on," Arlan whispered. The guard lunged. A desperate, sloppy thrust aimed at the stomach. Arlan side-stepped. Minimal movement. He grabbed the guard's wrist, twisted it outward—against the joint—and applied pressure. The guard shrieked as his wrist bent at an impossible angle. The knife clattered to the floor. Arlan swept the man’s legs. The guard hit the carpet hard. Before he could scramble away, Arlan was on top of him, his knee pressing into the man’s windpipe. "Don't... please..." the guard wheezed, his face turning purple. Arlan leaned close. He picked up the fallen knife. He held the cold steel against the guard's cheek. "Julian," Arlan said. "Where is he?" "I... I don't know..." Arlan pressed the knife. A thin line of red appeared on the guard's skin. [ SIN READER ACTIVE. ] [ DECEPTION DETECTED. ] "Wrong answer," Arlan whispered. "The System tells me when you lie. Try again. Or I start carving." The guard’s eyes went wide. He stared into Arlan’s eyes and saw zero empathy. He saw a machine. "The Gala!" the guard sputtered. "The Silver Moon Charity Gala! Tonight! At the Zenith Tower!" Arlan paused. A charity gala. Of course. Julian loved to play the saint. He would be there, surrounded by cameras, politicians, and the city’s elite, smiling and drinking champagne while his hitmen cleaned up his mess in the slums. "See?" Arlan patted the guard's cheek with the flat of the blade. "Was that so hard?" Arlan stood up. He looked at the three men groaning on the floor. One with a dislocated shoulder. One tased unconscious. One terrified and wetting himself. [ COMBAT RESOLVED. ] [ Efficiency Rating: S ] [ Damage Taken: 0% ] [ Karma Points Earned: 150 (Self-Defense against Hostiles). ] Arlan checked his pockets. He took the leader’s earpiece and the keys to the black van parked outside. He walked back to the elevator. He stopped and looked at the terrified guard one last time. "Call Julian," Arlan said. "Tell him the rat didn't die in the trap. Tell him the rat is coming for dinner." The elevator doors closed. Inside the Black Van. Arlan sat in the driver's seat. It smelled of leather and stale coffee. He looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked tired, dirty, and dressed like a homeless fugitive. He couldn't walk into the Zenith Tower looking like this. The Gala was black-tie only. High security. Metal detectors. Facial recognition. He needed a suit. He needed an invitation. And he needed a way to get a weapon past security. "System," Arlan muttered, starting the engine. "How much for a 'Disguise Kit'?" [ SYSTEM STORE ] [ Item: 'Optical Camouflage Mask' (High Tier) - Cost: 5,000 Points. ] [ Item: 'Identity Forgery Protocol' (Mid Tier) - Cost: 1,000 Points. ] "Too expensive," Arlan cursed. He only had 650 points left. He had to do this the old-fashioned way. He had to steal it. He drove the van out of the alley, merging into the traffic of Veridian City. The rain hammered against the windshield. He wasn't going to hide anymore. Julian wanted a show? He was going to give him one. [ NEW QUEST: CRASH THE PARTY. ] [ Objective: Infiltrate the Zenith Tower. ] [ Secondary Objective: Humiliate Julian Mahendra on Live TV. ] [ Reward: 'Karma King' Title & 2,000 Points. ] Arlan gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. "Zenith Tower," he whispered. Tonight, the elite of Veridian City would learn a new lesson. They thought karma was a concept. A metaphor. They were about to find out that Karma walked, talked, and carried a knife.
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The Butcher's Bill
The Los Muertos Cartel didn’t hide their money in a bank. They hid it in a slaughterhouse on the edge of the Narrows. It made sense. The smell of rotting pork and bleach was strong enough to mask the scent of cocaine, and the sound of industrial meat saws drowned out the screams of anyone stupid enough to steal from them. Arlan crouched on the rusted fire escape of the building across the alley. The freezing rain whipped against his tactical jacket. His left shoulder—the one with the bullet graze—burned with a dull, rhythmic ache. Every time he shivered, it felt like a hot needle threading through his muscle. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and watched. Two guards at the loading dock. They were smoking, huddled under a flickering yellow bulb. They didn't look like professional mercenaries. They wore oversized hoodies and carried cheap, unregistered submachine guns slung loosely over their shoulders. Sloppy. Arlan reached into t
A Diet of Sins
The handshake was brief. Her skin was freezing, like marble left out in the snow."Don't look so grim, Arlan," Viper said, pulling her hand back and sliding it into the pocket of her crimson coat. "You just survived a forty-story drop and made the untouchable Julian Mahendra cry on national television. You should be celebrating."Arlan didn't feel like celebrating. He felt like he had been chewed up and spat out by a garbage truck. His shoulder throbbed with a sickening, hot pulse where the bullet had grazed him."The envelope," Arlan grunted, nodding at the white paper lying on the dusty concrete."Ah, yes. Your signing bonus." Viper tapped her cigarette, the ash falling onto the tip of her designer boot. "Inside is a keycard to a safehouse in the Narrows. Untraceable. Stocked with medical supplies and enough calories to keep you standing. There’s also a burner phone. Keep it on."Arlan bent down to pick it up. The simple motion sent a shockwave of agony through
The Broker of Sins
The adrenaline didn't just fade; it crashed.It felt like his blood had turned into lead. Arlan’s hands shook so violently he could barely keep the stolen van on the road. His vision blurred, the neon lights of the port district smearing into long, headache-inducing streaks.[ SYSTEM WARNING: ADRENALINE WITHDRAWAL. ][ Status: Critical Exhaustion. ][ Penalty: -50% Mobility for 4 hours. ]"Shut up," Arlan groaned, leaning his head against the steering wheel.He pulled up to the rusted gates of the Old Docks. The rain here smelled different—salt, diesel, and rotting fish. It was the smell of the city’s underbelly, where things went to disappear.Warehouse 9 was a skeletal beast of corrugated metal and broken windows. No lights. No guards. Just a gaping maw of darkness waiting for him.Arlan checked his pockets.The plastic spoon-shank.The stolen phone.And the memory of Julian’s terrified face.He stepped out of the van. His knees buckled, sending a jolt of agony up his spine. He grit
The Icarus Protocol
Pandemonium didn't happen all at once. It rippled.First, the silence. Then, the gasp. And finally, the scream."He's got a gun!" someone shrieked. Arlan didn't have a gun. He had a champagne flute stem and a terrifying smile, but in a room full of paranoid billionaires, fear filled in the blanks.The ballroom exploded into motion. Hundreds of bodies in silk and velvet scrambled for the exits. Tables overturned. expensive caviar was trampled into the plush carpet. A woman in a red dress tripped over her own heels, sobbing as the crowd surged around her like a terrified river.Arlan stood in the eye of the storm.Four M-SEC guards were closing in. They weren't moving like bouncers. They moved like wolves. Tactical. Silent. Hands reaching inside their jackets for suppressed pistols.Four targets. Distance: 10 meters. Closing speed: Fast.Arlan felt the hum of the System in his skull. It was buzzing angrily, feeding off the chaotic energy of the room.[ ALERT: High-Level Threat Detected.
The Art of Crashing
The Zenith Tower pierced the clouds like a needle of glass and arrogance.Arlan parked the stolen van three blocks away, in a shadowy loading zone meant for garbage trucks. It was fitting. He was about to take out the trash.He watched the entrance through the rain-streaked windshield.Limousines. Bentleys. Hover-cars that cost more than a small country’s GDP. Men in tuxedos that cost more than Arlan’s life. Women in dresses that sparkled like diamonds.Target selection.He didn't need a System for this. He needed common sense.He couldn't take a fat man's suit—it would hang off him like a tent. He couldn't take an old man's suit—too vintage, he’d stand out.He needed someone... his size.There.A young man, maybe twenty-five. Blonde. Drunk. Stumbling out of a red sports car, yelling at his valet. He waved a gold-embossed envelope in the air like a flag."Don't scratch it, you peasant! Do you know who my father is?"Arlan smiled. Perfect.He pulled up his hood. He slid the plastic spo
Meat, Bone, and Mathematics
The hallway of the SleepWalker Hotel smelled of mildew and stale ramen. The fluorescent lights buzzed—a dying, flickering sound that matched the headache throbbing behind Arlan’s eyes.He stepped out of Room 404.He didn't walk like Arlan anymore. The slouch was gone. His shoulders were squared, his chin tucked. His footsteps were silent, rolling from heel to toe on the dirty carpet.It felt... alien.His brain knew things he hadn't learned. He looked at the fire extinguisher on the wall and didn't see a safety device. He saw a blunt force trauma weapon, effective range: 2 meters. He looked at the plastic spoon in his pocket and saw a jugular piercer.Download complete, he thought. Now for the stress test.He didn't have to wait long.As he reached the elevator, the doors pinged. They slid open with a metallic groan.Three men stood inside.They weren't police. Police wore blue and looked tired. These men wore tactical black vests, earpieces, and the distinct, arrogant posture of priv
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